novelraw Chapter 83: The Dementors on the Quidditch Pitch
Chapter 83: The Dementors on the Quidditch Pitch
Discussions about Peter Pettigrew intensified over the following days.
Everyone was attempting to determine how he'd managed to swagger past the Dementors' tight guard and reach Hogwarts.
In early November, Draco even found one or two wizard detective novels in the Slytherin common room. The author, who went by the pseudonym "339," had produced a wildly imaginative summary at the novel's end, outlining various possible methods by which Peter Pettigrew could infiltrate Hogwarts.
"Polyjuice Potion! They must have used Polyjuice Potion to disguise themselves as someone to get in..." Gregory Goyle pondered for ages over the article titled "Twenty Ways to Secretly Infiltrate Hogwarts," and finally shouted from the sofa in the common room.
"Come on, if he could impersonate someone else, why bother showing his real face?" Pansy Parkinson scoffed.
"Dementors can sense it," Theodore Nott said, looking up from behind his book—a rare occurrence. "The essence of a soul doesn't change because of altered appearance."
"Can't he turn into a rat?" Vincent Crabbe said, scratching his head and looking confused. "Could he dig a hole beneath the Dementor's feet and crawl in? That way, the Dementor wouldn't be able to sense him?"
His words drew a burst of disdainful laughter from the surrounding Slytherins.
Draco didn't laugh. He raised an eyebrow and glanced at Crabbe with surprise. He was unusually perceptive, actually getting close to the truth.
Not that Peter Pettigrew had actually dug his way in, but when he transformed into his Animagus rat form, the Dementors couldn't detect him.
In a sense, Crabbe did possess some insight—he'd inadvertently revealed a secret that Sirius Black had spent over a decade in Azkaban discovering.
However, clearly his Slytherin classmates hadn't yet realized this.
Even Crabbe himself hadn't realized it—he was so engrossed in eating his Fizzing Whizzbee that he wobbled and floated into the air amidst laughter in the common room.
"Oh, Crabbe, your idea is just too 'adorable,'" Pansy said, laughing so hard she nearly fell over, earning a displeased look from Blaise Zabini beside her.
"What's wrong? Why are you glaring at me?" Pansy asked, puzzled.
"How can you call other boys adorable?" Blaise said in a low voice, his face dark with displeasure.
"You're the most adorable, all right? Are you mad? You're even jealous of Crabbe..." Pansy muttered under her breath.
Merlin, those two were so tiresome! Draco rolled his eyes as he overheard their hushed whispers. He shouldn't have sat next to Blaise!
"It couldn't possibly be a Portkey, nor could it be Apparition, and it certainly couldn't be flying in on a broomstick in broad daylight—the Dementors would know. I vote for the secret passage theory," Blaise said, finally stating his opinion triumphantly after being appeased. "Perhaps there really is a secret passage that Filch hasn't blocked yet, leading from Hogsmeade or even further into Hogwarts... Draco, what do you think?"
"Perhaps," Draco said, nodding lazily.
Blaise was correct; Hogwarts did indeed have secret passages in and out that Filch hadn't yet sealed, and it was feasible.
However, thanks to Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, Draco, who'd been closely monitoring Hogwarts' activities with the Marauder's Map, was certain the secret passage theory was utter nonsense.
Peter Pettigrew's name never appeared on the Marauder's Map—at least not when Draco checked it.
For several nights consecutively, after Quidditch practice, he'd lain in his private room at the bottom of the Black Lake, meticulously searching every corner of the Marauder's Map—not only secret passages but even Hogsmeade village—but still couldn't find Peter Pettigrew's name.
It seemed that, whether or not Peter Pettigrew, that cunning rat, had ever appeared at Hogwarts, he was no longer nearby.
Amidst the endless debates and rebuttals, the Slytherins' fireside chatter drew to a close. The students, yawning, returned to their dormitories to rest, gradually dispersing from the fireplace.
Theodore hadn't risen yet. He turned a page of his book, *Moste Potente Potions*, and asked Draco casually, "You're also a proponent of the secret passage theory?"
"I don't favor any theory. None of them make sense," Draco said, leaning back comfortably in the leather sofa, gazing at the transparent dome above the common room. "The question has never been how he got in, but what he's here for."
"That's true. Getting to the root is the best approach," Theodore said, his tone holding agreement as he turned his gaze back to his book.
Draco sighed and continued drifting into his own thoughts, gazing at the dark, gentle waves of the Black Lake beyond the dome, and the Giant Squid swimming across them. He still couldn't understand the mystery behind it all.
Several days later, he abandoned his futile search on the Marauder's Map and focused all his energy on Quidditch—Slytherin would play Gryffindor on the second Saturday of November.
Given that Captain Marcus always wore a death-defying expression, the team members had to use every spare second for extra practice—Draco was no exception.
In a Defence Against the Dark Arts class, Lupin was explaining Grindylows to his students before the water tank at the classroom's front. They were disgusting, pale green water demons with sharp horns that liked hiding in weed beds and ambushing people. Right now, one was pressing its face against the glass, making all sorts of grotesque faces and constantly bending and stretching its long, thin fingers.
"Can anyone tell me the trick to dealing with them?" He glanced around at the students below, and finally said helpfully, "Hermione?"
"The trick is to break their grip. Their fingers are very brittle," Hermione said, a hint of smugness in her voice.
A typical Hermione Granger, always rescuing professors from perplexing silences. Draco breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the girl before him happily sit down.
It seemed she was no longer affected by Peter Pettigrew or the Dementors, and continued pursuing her academic studies with great enthusiasm, sitting in the most prominent position in the classroom, being the most prominent student in the professors' eyes.
However, when he discovered that Neville Longbottom, who knew nothing, was sitting beside her, his mood suddenly soured.
"Very good," Draco thought. "After class, I might try the Leg-Locker Curse on Longbottom."
"Very good, five points to Gryffindor. I was originally planning to find a pond for practical experience," Lupin said regretfully, "but unfortunately the weather isn't very cooperative today."
"Thank Merlin—I don't want to go into any more ponds," Ron said to his good friend Harry, still shaken, across the aisle.
Yes, the weather was dreadful. A violent storm raged outside the window, just like in his previous life.
This reminded Draco of the scene in his previous life when the Dementors had attacked Harry en masse.
Although Harry had already mastered the Patronus Charm in this life, Draco still had many concerns.
"You absolutely must bring your wand to the match, Harry," he said after class. Instead of cursing Longbottom, he stopped Harry before the torches and braziers, trying to appear sincere, though he was extremely annoyed—he felt like a nagging old woman.
"Why are you so concerned about the wand?" Harry asked, puzzled. "This is Quidditch, not a wizarding duel."
Draco could only shrug at him, offering no explanation.
If Draco told Harry now that he'd be attacked by Dementors during the match, it would seem almost prophetic; some might even think he was cursing Harry—wizards could be quite superstitious, just look how popular Professor Trelawney was!
Match day arrived. The weather remained terrible, with rumbling thunder and fierce winds.
Slytherin captain Marcus Flint woke with a gloomy expression.
"We need to put more effort into our throws, and we also need to consider the wind's effect on the ball and pay attention to trajectory," he said seriously.
"Could the match be cancelled?" Adrian Pucey asked hopelessly. "Should we ask Madam Hooch?"
"There has to be a proper reason," Marcus said in a deep voice. "Otherwise, even if the Head of House pleads on our behalf, it won't work."
But Marcus looked around at his teammates and couldn't find any inspiration to avoid this unfortunate match. The Slytherin players could only emerge one by one from the changing rooms, mount their broomsticks on the wet grass, and face their Gryffindor opponents through the rain.
With a sharp whistle from Madam Hooch, both teams gritted their teeth, gripped their brooms, and rushed into the bleak, rainy sky above.
Draco was frozen stiff by the icy rain.
His mind was in complete turmoil. He not only had to navigate the storm on his broomstick to find the Snitch, but he also had to keep watch on Harry's movements.
This was no easy task. As a Seeker in competition, multitasking was unwise, but he couldn't help keeping Harry in mind.
Harry had saved his life. Ever since then, he'd found it difficult to ignore the potential danger Harry might face.
A thunderclap rang out, followed by a flash of lightning.
Draco saw the small golden ball with silver wings.
The elusive creature was only walnut-sized, cunning and agile, and at this moment it seemed to be taking a brief rest mid-air because its wings were wet from rain.
Excellent! Let's end this wretched match already!
He sped toward the Snitch, suddenly reaching out to the tiny golden speck, and before it could react, he scooped it up!
Overjoyed, he turned to look at the sea of cloaks and tattered umbrellas—all blown apart by the gale—to see if she'd witnessed his feat; only then did he notice the screams coming from the stands.
"Harry!" people shouted.
Draco turned to look at Harry not far away and saw him sliding off his broomstick and plummeting downward at high speed.
A cloud of silvery-white mist emerged from the tip of Harry's wand, which he gripped tightly, but it didn't seem very effective. There weren't just one or two Dementors in the stands, but a whole hundred Dementors, all eager to attack.
Harry absolutely must not fall into that horde of Dementors!
Blood rushed to his head. Without time to draw his wand, he hurtled toward the direction Harry had fallen, almost in a straight line, like a cannonball.
"No!" Hermione screamed from the stands, even though those around her were still confused about what the Slytherin Seeker was doing.
Instantly, she understood Draco's intention—she'd seen his reckless flying methods before—he was definitely planning to rescue Harry; but it was too risky, and she'd never seen anyone play Quidditch more recklessly than him!
Merlin! She gripped her wand tightly and began casting the Patronus Charm, her heart pounding in her throat.
Merlin, if you truly exist, please save him, don't let anything happen to him! In that instant, she prayed devoutly and desperately.
Just when the audience thought Draco was about to plunge headfirst into the horde of Dementors on the ground, his broom made an incredible angle—he caught Harry with the back of his broomstick.
In the blink of an eye, he gripped his broom and soared back into the sky, snatching back Harry Potter—the feast the Dementors had been eyeing for so long—amidst the suffocating, chilling rage of the Dementors.
Gasps and cheers erupted from the stands, but Draco paid them no heed.
He'd just been too close to the Dementors. The chill emanating from that dark mass of Dementors penetrated him to the core.
Some horrifying images immediately flashed through his mind. Even more terrifying, several Dementors, unwilling to let their feast slip away, were emitting hoarse growls as they followed closely behind his broom, causing the cheers from the stands to quickly turn into screams of panic.
Draco shivered in the biting, torrential rain. The howling wind whipped the icy, hard raindrops violently into his eyes, nostrils, and ears. He couldn't reach for his wand to fight the Dementors behind him, because he was gripping his broomstick in one hand and supporting the unconscious Harry with the other.
How helpless he was—he couldn't release either.
The thick black fog began blurring his vision. He gritted his teeth, and with the last vestige of consciousness, he and the weakened Harry rushed straight toward the stands where Dumbledore was—probably the best place for protection at that moment.
He was exhausted. He relied entirely on his loyal partner, Nimbus 2001, to keep flying.
Harry behind him had lost consciousness and was swaying precariously, and Draco was struggling to keep him upright.
As he approached the stands, he vaguely saw silvery-white figures appearing from all directions, rushing toward the darkness behind him: otters, tabby cats, does... and a phoenix emerging from Dumbledore's wand before him.
The phoenix suddenly rushed toward him, brushed past the hem of his damp, cold robes, and swooped away behind him.
The heavy feeling of darkness suddenly lessened, and he felt lightness in his soul.
Draco felt like he was floating. He was like a bowstring stretched too taut, suddenly snapping. Finally, before he completely broke apart, he and Harry tumbled down the stands' steps, eliciting gasps from those around them.
"...Their Patronuses worked, and those Dementors were forced back," he heard Dumbledore say to someone beside him before he lost consciousness. "It bought us time to react."
This was his last memory. Then came numbing, swirling white mist, and a thick, tidal wave of blackness. Endless blackness.
The aftershocks of the Dementors lingered in his mind. All those terrible memories attacked his brain instantly:
His father imprisoned in Azkaban, his mother weeping and begging the Dark Lord at Malfoy Manor, the Dark Lord's bloodshot eyes and cold words... Most terrifying of all, Dumbledore's fall from the Astronomy Tower, and Hermione's lifeless tears, her pitiful screams carving wounds into his heart, just like the scars of "Mudblood" being carved on her arm...
He didn't know how much time had passed, but within the dark vortex, a warm hand caressed his cold face. He faintly heard a gentle yet sorrowful voice calling, "Draco... Draco..."
The voice sounded somewhat familiar. Draco was pulled from his reverie by the voice. He forced his eyes open and found faint candlelight shining from the wall sconce.
This was a ward in the Hospital Wing. Everything was dimly lit, but the girl's eyes shone through, appearing watery.
"Oh Merlin, you're awake!" She rushed over and embraced his neck. Something wet and warm stuck to his neck, making him feel hot and flustered.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, her voice choked with emotion.
Draco's voice was hoarse. "Not well."
"Does something hurt?" Hermione asked worriedly, sniffling.
"No," he said weakly. "I just don't feel well."
"Oh, Madam Pomfrey said you need to drink some chocolate," she said, rubbing her eyes. She quickly rose, retrieved a narrow-necked bottle from the cabinet beside him, and waved it before him.
"All right," Draco mumbled, trying to sit up, but he was too weak to move.
"It's all right, don't force yourself—I'll help you," Hermione said softly, leaning over and carefully placing the thin nozzle of the bottle into his mouth, telling him to drink.
Draco was taken aback by this sudden tenderness and care, and a feeling of grievance suddenly welled up in his heart.
On one hand, his weak and powerless state made him feel ashamed. He was cold all over, feeling as if he'd just been pulled from an ice cave, and could only let the liquid slide down his throat—even swallowing felt tiring and exhausting.
On the other hand, few people showed him such kindness. Apart from his mother, no one would coax him so gently; and even if someone wanted to try, he, being proud and aloof by nature, wouldn't give them the opportunity easily.
And now, this girl was actually coaxing him, so affectionately and skillfully. She was even wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, being incredibly considerate.
Draco hummed contentedly, closed his eyes drowsily, and heard her place the empty bottle on the bedside table with a soft, crisp "clink."
"How are you? Are you feeling better?" Hermione said, leaning closer to him again. She touched his forehead and observed his complexion with concern.
As she drew nearer, her delightful scent became unmistakable. It wafted from her hair onto his face, flowing through his nostrils and washing away his weariness and melancholy.
"I'm feeling better," Draco said. He felt his strength slowly returning, opened his mouth, and regained his normal voice. "How's Harry? Is he all right?"
"He's resting over there," she said, gesturing with her eyes.
Draco slowly turned his head to look at Harry's bed—a silent figure was wrapped in the sheets.
"He wasn't in good spirits, so Madam Pomfrey gave him a Sleeping Draught to help him get proper rest," she whispered in his ear.
"Any other news?" he asked listlessly, reaching out to grab a strand of her hair.
"Professor Dumbledore is furious. You should have seen him confronting the Dementors. He chased them all from the school..." Hermione said, smiling as he ran his fingers through her hair.
"Excellent," he said lazily.
"Gryffindor lost the match. They're all dejected, especially Wood. But he admitted you played brilliantly and won fair and square," she said, looking him over and noticing he still seemed somewhat listless, which worried her.
"Anything else?" he asked absently, continuing to hold her hair.
Hermione glanced at Harry, who lay motionless on the bed. She whispered in his ear, "And also, Harry's broomstick was smashed by the Whomping Willow, and he won't throw away the pieces."
His generous godfather would probably buy him a Firebolt, Draco thought sourly. Sirius Black, what a spendthrift. Look at his extravagant behavior—he was a purebred Black.
"Anything else?" He rubbed that strand of hair, as if he couldn't get enough of touching it.
"Several of your students who used the Patronus Charm you taught conjured Patronuses trying to protect you. Luna Lovegood's hare, Seamus Finnigan's fox, Ernie Macmillan's boar, Cho Chang's swan... it was quite a spectacle!" she whispered to him. "The professors were all amazed. I'll wager you didn't notice then, did you? Oh, Ginny was so talented! She was only a second-year and she conjured a horse..."
"I only saw an otter... briefly..." Draco remembered the otter.
Who could forget Hermione Granger's overly lively Patronus? In his previous life, he'd been quite astonished, finding the Patronus completely unlike her serious and rigid personality.
Looking at it now, it suited her perfectly. A clever, adorable little thing, wasn't she?
"Yes—that otter," she said thoughtfully. "It was the first time I successfully conjured it. I think I was probably too worried and too angry at the time, which triggered a conviction."
"So your Patronus can't take form not because you're insufficiently happy—it's purely because you don't believe you can?" he asked with difficulty, his tone tinged with surprise.
"You could say that," Hermione said, her eyes crinkling.
She'd never expected that anger would unexpectedly ignite her fighting spirit to produce a Patronus.
"You always manage to surprise me, Hermione Granger," Draco said after a pause, looking at her softly. "The otter is beautiful."
She gave him a smug smile. "My Slytherin friend, I now understand the benefits you mentioned—the benefits of teaching someone the Patronus Charm."
"Oh?" he said lazily, waiting for her to continue.
"So you can be saved by your students today, is that it?" she quipped. "Is that the benefit you mentioned?"
"It's absurd," he said dejectedly, ignoring her teasing. "The students have all produced corporeal Patronuses, but the teacher still hasn't. It's not from lack of conviction, nor from lack of anger."
"Are you lacking happiness?" she asked sensitively, worry in her voice. "Are you—unhappy?"
"Probably," he said. He felt the strands of hair slipping through his fingers and couldn't help bringing them to his face and inhaling.
This scent was quite pleasant.
"Once you're better, shouldn't I try to find some joy for you?" Hermione said anxiously, looking at his listless appearance.
She'd been terrified by the Dementor incident today and wished he'd immediately conjure the complete Patronus. "I've been wanting to ask you this for ages—how can you be unhappy? You lack nothing, everything is so perfect—"
"Yes, Draco Malfoy, who should never know sorrow—how could he not be happy? What an insatiable little wretch... He's probably just forcing himself to be miserable..." Draco said sarcastically, closing his eyes.
He didn't know what was wrong with him today. It seemed like the switch he used to control his emotions was broken. He couldn't stay calm, couldn't be rational, couldn't be patient. He was depressed and negative, selfish and willful. He spoke without thinking, without considering consequences.
"It must be a side effect of the Dementor's attack," he thought resignedly, still unwilling to release the strand of hair in his hand.
"That's not what I meant," she said, leaning closer to him, her eyes sparkling with worry as she stroked his platinum hair. "Wouldn't it be better to be happier? Smile more. You—you look beautiful when you smile. Your usual gentle smile is lovely, but your wide, genuine smile is the most beautiful..."
"Oh... is that so..." He squinted at her, his voice slightly unsteady.
"Of course. Draco, are you blushing?" In the dim light of the wall sconce, Hermione looked at his face suspiciously and noticed a faint blush on it.
"It's rather warm," the boy said quickly, closing his eyes and feigning ignorance.
At that moment, Draco suddenly felt her stroking his hair.
It didn't feel bad. He'd always thought of himself as the type who didn't like being touched or stroked.
Since his rebirth, he'd been very wary and vigilant—a sad shadow left over from his previous life.
On one occasion, he'd once knocked Crabbe, who was trying to surprise him from around a corner, into the wall. Since then, the legend that "you can never sneak up on Draco Malfoy" had circulated within Slytherin.
Then Blaise, not believing it, tried to clap him from behind, and received the same treatment in return.
Later, more Slytherin students who didn't believe the warnings came to test him in turn, but they didn't fare well; they only received his indiscriminate defensive strikes.
"Draco, are you mad? Where are your gentlemanly manners? Are you going to be alone forever?" Pansy had looked at him like he was insane after he'd knocked away some foolish Slytherin girl—she'd only wanted to try touching his hair or his shoulder.
Gentlemanly manners? Draco had chuckled.
Ever since he'd witnessed the horrific nature of Bellatrix, that deranged woman, his gentlemanly manners had died.
He dared not underestimate the destructive power any witch could bring; they might be even more ruthless than wizards. Of course, this didn't mean he was fonder of wizards.
To be fair, Draco Malfoy dared not underestimate anyone, nor dared he trust anyone, regardless of gender.
But Hermione Granger was the only exception.
She existed independently of everyone else.
His wariness and vigilance had no effect on her.
The feeling of being touched and caressed by her never made him nervous; on the contrary, it made him feel comfortable and at ease.
"How can it be warm?" Hermione complained, shivering. "It's November. I actually feel rather cold here."
"Are you cold?" Draco said, opening his eyes, putting those memories behind him, and looking at her with some concern.
Her face seemed somewhat pale.
"Didn't you notice the fireplace in the Hospital Wing is still empty? Madam Pomfrey must have forgotten about it..." Hermione muttered to herself. "She just let me in and then left in a hurry."
(Madam Pomfrey: walking excitedly to report this gossip to Madam Pince.)
Draco craned his neck, trying to see through the window before the hospital bed. Outside, icy rain was falling and the cold wind was howling.
"Er, do you want to come under the covers—" he said abruptly, somewhat embarrassed. "It's warmer than outside."
"Oh? That won't do!" she raised her voice. "That's definitely not—"
Harry, fast asleep nearby, seemed disturbed and stirred restlessly.
Hermione quickly lowered her voice, afraid of disturbing Harry. She leaned closer to Draco's face, looked at his furrowed brow, and couldn't resist stroking it, trying to smooth it out. "That won't do. Stop being silly—I have to go. You should sleep, Draco."
"Just for a little while—I feel cold," Draco said, frowning again, revealing a vulnerable expression.
He'd probably lost his mind.
His heart had been left empty and cold by those Dementors, and he'd forgotten how to exercise "forbearance and avoidance." His inherent willfulness had reactivated, and his temperament had become reckless again.
Now his mind was filled with reckless and impulsive thoughts.
He wanted to hold her hair forever, even just a strand, to fill the emptiness in his hands; he wanted to hold her tightly, just like that night in the Great Hall, falling asleep to her scent; or, like on the bed in the spa sanatorium, to surround her without restraint, so she could breathe some warmth on his collarbone and heal his cold and desolate heart.
That way, perhaps his extremely miserable symptoms could be alleviated, and he could attempt to get proper sleep on this uncomfortable Hospital Wing bed, he thought indulgently.
"Really? Didn't you just say you were warm?" Hermione said, looking at his face suspiciously and touching his forehead.
It's not very warm, she thought.
"I feel dreadful... and I'm frightened... so many Dementors... you know, I'm cold all over, even my heart feels frozen..." Draco said without hesitation, adopting a mournful expression and beginning to act pitifully.
The side effects of the Dementor's attack were like a cauldron of boiling Draught of Despair, sizzling again. Utter vulnerability overwhelmed his soul, shattering his willpower into nothingness.
His fortress of reason completely crumbled, and his tone involuntarily and instinctively carried a hint of pleading.
"All right—don't be afraid, I'm coming," Hermione said, hesitating momentarily. Then, thinking of how terrifying the Dementors were, she couldn't help feeling sorry for him.
Yes, so many Dementors, so densely packed. He must be feeling very distressed and needed comfort.
At least, she could give him an embrace so he wouldn't feel so lonely and cold in his hospital bed.
She made a quick decision, removed her shoes, and crawled in from the blanket's corner.
Draco was as obedient as a child about to receive sweets. He moved aside to make room for her to nestle beside him.
"Are you feeling better?" Hermione said, turning to the side, resting her head on his shoulder, and beginning to gently stroke his other shoulder, trying to make him feel better.
Sure enough, her embrace worked. It exuded a delicate fragrance, gentle and warm, making him feel safe and peaceful. The hospital bed didn't feel so uncomfortable anymore. Draco wrapped his arms tightly around her, gently holding the ends of her hair, smiling slightly, feeling the emptiness in his heart being filled.
"Much better. Not so cold anymore," he said, humming contentedly, drowsily being stroked by her, like a cat purring contentedly by the fireplace.
"Draco, you know I can't stay here forever, and I can't keep you warm forever," Hermione reminded him seriously, while unconsciously nestling against his shoulder to find a more comfortable position.
She was starting to regret this.
Her "heart palpitation syndrome" was still unresolved! That morning's forehead kiss remained an unsolved mystery in her mind; that embrace at Honeydukes still made her face flush and her heart race; and now, he was acting pitifully, insisting he was cold and asking her to come to his bed and embrace him!
She shouldn't have agreed to his proposal on a whim. She dutifully patted his shoulder, her mind reeling. She realized it must have been his pitiful expression that had momentarily lowered her guard.
This was the Hospital Wing, a place frequented by people! And she, risking discovery, had thrown her blank essay, "Recognising and Killing Werewolves," with only a title, into the Gryffindor common room and gone to the bedside of a dangerously charming boy!
Yet he looked so fragile and smelled intoxicating; the way he held her was warm and inviting, his expression pure and harmless, making her feel no threat, even somewhat sleepy, with a blissful intoxication rising in her mind.
"Put me to sleep before you leave... all right? I managed to put you to sleep last time... in the Great Hall..." Draco mumbled, completely lacking his usual mature and composed demeanor. Instead, he spoke like a greedy child trying to bargain with her, as if he wanted a couple more sweets.
"All right, all right, Draco, how can you be so affectionate with me... I didn't know you were so good at being affectionate..." Hermione said helplessly. She was worried they'd be seen by Madam Pomfrey; but she was also somewhat happy because she'd discovered another side of the weakened Draco that he couldn't hide in time—his affectionate side.
Perhaps none of the students at Hogwarts knew that beneath his aloof exterior lay a soul capable of affection. She couldn't help smiling and unconsciously nuzzled his shoulder.
"By the way... it's so late... how could Madam Pomfrey let you in..." he said, rubbing his chin against her head contentedly, asking her in a daze amidst the faint fragrance.
"I don't understand either... She didn't make things difficult for me at all..." she said, bewildered, and involuntarily yawned. "Sometimes, she's actually quite accommodating..."
"Excellent... excellent..." he murmured, drifting into a sweet dream without darkness as she gently and intermittently stroked him.
(Madam Pomfrey, who habitually gave preferential treatment to couples she considered sweethearts: keeping her good deeds hidden.)
Hermione Granger was half asleep in the dim light of dawn.
She wanted to turn over as usual and continue sleeping longer, but she felt restricted.
She frowned, opened her eyes irritably, wanting to see what was so audacious as to restrict her movements, but suddenly discovered a thin, pale face.
It was Draco.
His thick eyelashes covered his gray eyes, and his light pink lips were slightly parted, his soft breath brushing against her nose and forehead.
Oh, it's him.
Relieved, she closed her eyes again. She nuzzled his neck, inhaled happily, sighed contentedly, and went back to sleep.
However, as the light outside the window brightened, her mind gradually awakened.
The instant she fully regained consciousness, her brain suddenly exploded, leaving complete blankness.
Merlin! Draco?!
The girl's heart stopped beating completely, and her ears were ringing.
She opened her eyes and moved her head with difficulty and quietness, only to find he'd grabbed a large handful of her curly hair, holding it tightly, like Crookshanks stubbornly holding onto a ball of yarn.
Only then did she realize what had happened. She'd been putting him to sleep in the Hospital Wing bed last night, and inexplicably, she'd also fallen asleep and hadn't woken until now.
And—she gently shifted her body and immediately discovered his arms were tightly wrapped around her.
Merlin! He'd held her all night while they slept!
Hermione's face flushed red. She was flustered, her head spinning. What should she do? Should she flee? But her hair—was still firmly in his grasp!
She swallowed hard, unable to resist stealing a glance at him to see if he was awake. The candle in the wall sconce had gone out, and by the light from the window, she saw a smile on his lips, as if he were immersed in a sweet dream.
Thankfully, he hadn't woken!
Then she started worrying about him—had he slept well last night?
At least, judging from his current expression, he didn't seem negatively affected by those wretched Dementors. She tried calming her wildly beating heart while reassuring herself.
Wait, now wasn't the time to think about that! She told herself she had to sneak back quickly!
It took her about ten minutes to painstakingly extract her hair from his hands, strand by strand. Then she painstakingly replaced herself with a spare pillow from the bed nearby and stuffed it into his arms so he could continue holding something properly, lest he start whining and complaining in his sleep again.
Finally, the flustered girl narrowly escaped the boy's bedside. Before Madam Pomfrey came for rounds, she grabbed her shoes and, at dawn, tiptoed from the Hospital Wing like someone returning from the Forbidden Forest, her face full of guilt, like Crookshanks.
That morning, Madam Pomfrey allowed more visitors in.
The Slytherin Quidditch team members were all present: Keeper Miles Bletchley, Beaters Peregrine Derrick and Lucian Bole, Chasers Adrian Pucey and Graham Montague, and a beaming Marcus Flint, who were all discussing Draco's last save.
"Besides being a Seeker, you could also be an excellent Chaser," Adrian said, nodding to Draco.
"That dive was absolutely brilliant!" Peregrine exclaimed admiringly. "That was the finest Wronski Feint I've ever seen!"
Draco smiled faintly at them, but inwardly wondered: When had Hermione slipped away? And who'd given him that large pillow when he'd woken this morning?
He'd made such a capricious and unrestrained demand last night, even going somewhat too far.
How could she have agreed to him so easily? She—wouldn't be angry, would she?
"Although the purpose isn't so admirable..." Marcus said loudly and defiantly. His noise earned him glares from the Gryffindor players gathered nearby.
Oliver Wood, captain of the Gryffindor House team, nearly rushed up to fight Marcus, but was held back by the Weasley twins, one on each side.
Madam Pomfrey came running at the sound, exclaiming dramatically, "Time's up! Out you go! The patients need plenty of rest; you shouldn't disturb them for too long!"
Draco was completely baffled by her. Wasn't she quite accommodating to Hermione yesterday?
However, perhaps Madam Pomfrey was correct this time—Harry looked rather listless.
"I'm sorry about those Dementors, and about your broomstick," Draco said when they were alone in the ward.
"It wasn't your fault—you saved me," Harry said, staring blankly at the Hospital Wing ceiling. "I still owe you thanks."
Draco fell silent momentarily.
No, Harry didn't owe him anything; he owed seventeen-year-old Harry thanks.
However, Draco didn't regret catching the Snitch.
He was a Slytherin, not some overly modest hypocrite; he had his own honor to protect.
"As I fell, I heard my mother's voice again," Harry said abruptly. "More of what she said—what she said before Voldemort killed her."
Draco turned to look at Harry in surprise. He hadn't expected Harry to bring this up at this moment.
"I'm sorry about that," he said softly.
"She said three things this time. She was trying to protect me," Harry said, smiling bitterly and wiping his eyes. "You were right before—she loves me. If not—"
If it weren't for Voldemort, how happy he would be. Draco guessed Harry wanted to say something similar.
He saw Harry turn his head to the side, and he guessed Harry was crying.
"Harry, she'd be so proud of you," Draco said urgently. "You nearly conjured your Patronus—I saw it."
"Thank you," Harry said after a pause, his voice somber. "You're the first student I've seen faint from a Dementor attack, just like me. You were unconscious all yesterday afternoon. Did you have some terrible memories?"
Could they be worse than "the moment of one's parents' death"? Harry looked out at the wind and rain, thinking he was probably overthinking it. What terrible memories could a boy like Draco, who was loved by his parents, possibly have?
"Yes, they're terrible," Draco said with a grim expression.
Harry turned and looked at him in surprise. He hadn't expected Draco to admit that.
He'd assumed Draco would continue denying the question with a cold expression.
No boy was happy to admit his vulnerability, especially a boy like Draco Malfoy who had "pride" ingrained in his bones.
"What are they?" Harry couldn't help asking.
"I'm sorry, I can't tell you. They're too terrible, so terrible I can't even speak of them," Draco said, his voice dropping. "All I can say is, they're very, very, very terrible."
Harry saw a kind of sadness and vulnerability in his face, even deep-seated pain.
These sorts of emotions shouldn't appear on the face of a boy like Draco Malfoy who had everything going well, but they appeared anyway, and they were so genuine.
At one point, Harry inexplicably believed him.
Draco might have experienced something very painful. Although this perception was absurd and unrealistic, he seemed able to sense the despondency in the boy nearby.
Because Harry had seen that same expression on his own face when he'd looked in the Mirror of Erised.
Harry seemed in much better spirits on Monday morning as they left the Hospital Wing for the Great Hall for lunch.
When a friend had gone through the same thing as you, you realized you weren't alone in this difficult, arduous, and even terrifying experience.
This might be another kind of understanding and companionship.